


Half-Seas Over

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Alcohol, Friendship, Hope, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser is drunk.  Or possibly he has a concussion.  The symptoms are similar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-Seas Over

Fraser is drunk. 

 

At least, he’s fairly certain he is.  It’s also possible that he has a concussion; what he’s currently experiencing feels similar: dizziness, disorientation, slight nausea, the refusal of his body to respond as he expects it to, and a marked difficulty keeping his thoughts on track.  But he doesn’t remember receiving a blow to the head (although memory loss can be a symptom of concussion, and for that matter, of inebriation, so this particular piece of evidence is inconclusive).

 

He does remember the bourbon.  Nasty stuff, he doesn’t understand how people can drink it for the taste, but then, be fair, _chacun á son gout_ , and there are pockets of humanity that enjoy haggis, and brown lichen, and blowfish, and Chicken McNuggets, too.  He wasn’t drinking it for the taste, in any case.  He was drinking it out of duty, and also _on_ duty, which is both ironic and paradoxical, a violation of duty incurred in pursuit of his duty. 

 

The important thing is that Fraser’s companions have also been drinking all this time; sitting here, with him, drinking, rather than descending in force on Ray Vecchio (né Kowalski).  Fraser isn’t quite sure, at this point, whether they actually suspected Ray of being a police officer, or thought he was up to some other sort of nefarious business, or whether, through a highly ironic coincidence, their leader simply intended to pursue Ray as a sexual partner.  The difference may matter in the larger scheme of things, but the important point is, whatever they wanted with Ray, they haven’t got it, and Ray is off doing the job he came here to do.

 

He hopes that Ray finishes his business soon, though, because these belligerent, well-muscled men don’t seem to know any songs in common with Fraser, and he hasn’t been able to identify a topic that will involve them in an engrossing debate without provoking a fistfight.  A fistfight would also distract them, of course, but Fraser doesn’t think he can hold off five of them for very long, not in his present state of physical debilitation.  In any case, getting himself either thrown out of the bar or knocked unconscious would hardly advance his defense of justice and pursuit of Ray—or rather, the other way around, good Lord, what’s the matter with his _words_?

 

Meanwhile, the man sitting next to him—O’Brien is his name, and Fraser thinks that’s an important detail, though he’s momentarily forgotten its significance—is leaning in to tell Fraser something in a low voice, but Fraser has lost the thread of the conversation.

 

A hand lands on his shoulder.

 

“Hey, there you are, buddy,” says Ray’s voice from behind him.  “Everything okay?”

 

And here, if he needed it, is compelling evidence for the inebriation theory: instead of answering his partner’s query, Fraser finds himself smiling speechlessly up at Ray.

 

“Hey. . .are you drunk?”  Ray peers down at Fraser, reflecting his smile with a sloppy grin of his own. 

 

Fraser bites his lips to keep from answering right away, because he knows that there are things he’s not supposed to say here, where the wrong words will give the game away.  His name, and Ray’s, are things he shouldn’t admit to, although troublesomely, he can’t at the moment recall what names he’s supposed to use instead.  But is it wrong to admit that he’s drunk?  There are some situations where it’s best to dissemble one’s weakness, and others in which it is useful to feign weakness in order to throw people off guard, and Fraser’s pretty sure this is one or the other, but he’s lost track of whether he’s been pretending to be drunk or pretending not to be.

 

“I’d rather not say,” he says at last, falling back on deflection, which often serves him well. 

 

“You are!  You’re drunk!”  Ray doubles over laughing like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard of.  His hand is still on Fraser’s shoulder and he leans on it as he laughs.  The weight unbalances Fraser, who sways on his stool; Ray has to grab him to keep him from falling.

 

“You’re drunk, too,” Fraser says.

 

“Nah, I’m just. . .happy,” Ray slurs.  Grinning, he lifts one hand to clumsily ruffle Fraser’s hair.  The room tilts hard enough that Fraser is forced to close his eyes for a moment.  “But you’re wasted.”

 

“It’s possible that I have a concussion,” Fraser points out, enunciating carefully.

 

Ray frowns at him, then glances around at Fraser’s companions, who are now looking at the pair of them with varying degrees of displeasure.

 

“Somebody been messing with you?” Ray mutters in his ear.

 

Before Fraser can work out the correct answer to that question, O’Brien rises to glower at Ray.

 

“Relax, pretty boy,” he says.  “No one’s done anything to your boyfriend.  Just having a few friendly drinks.”  He lays a big hand on Fraser’s back, not pushing, but there’s definitely a threat in his voice.  “Ain’t that right?”

 

“Yes, indeed,” says Fraser, because it’s true and because this is not the time for a brawl, he knows that was not part of the plan, this was supposed to be a quiet, unobtrusive plan.  He swivels around to smile up at O’Brien, who is close enough that doing so puts a crick in Fraser’s neck.  “Very friendly.  You know, the ritual sharing of alcoholic beverages is a method that many cultures employ to. . .” 

 

Ray’s hand tightens on his shoulder at the same time that O’Brien gives him a little push, causing him to lose his train of thought and also to slide off the stool, practically into Ray’s arms.  Ray grabs Fraser to keep him on his feet, but nearly topples over when Fraser clutches at his shoulder for support.  Ray reeks of beer and tobacco and sweat, and his hands are leaving heat-imprints through the flannel of Fraser’s shirt.  The floor lurches dangerously, like the deck of a ship on the open ocean; it’s all Fraser can do to keep his feet under him.

 

“Okay, okay, buddy, it’s time for us to get outta here,” says Ray, getting his arm around Fraser’s waist.  But they don’t go anywhere, because now all five of the men are on their feet, surrounding Ray and Fraser.

 

“Hey, what’s the rush?  Party’s just getting started, why don’t you sit down and join us?”  The words are friendly but O’Brien’s tone is threatening.  “You two look like you’re ready to have some fun.”

 

Ray raises his free hand and smiles ingratiatingly, staggering a little under Fraser’s weight.  “Hey, no, no, no, you got us wrong, we’re just having a night on the town, his girlfriend’s gonna kill both of us, like it’s my fault he can’t hold his fucking liquor.  I gotta get him home, c’mon guys, we weren’t trying to start nothing.  No harm, no foul, huh?”

 

O’Brien looks Ray up and down with a disgusted sneer.  He’s standing too close, and Fraser knows Ray is good with his fists, but O’Brien is big and Ray is drunk, so Fraser steps forward to get between them.  But Ray still has Fraser’s arm over his shoulder, and he tugs sharply backward, causing the two of them to stumble into the man standing behind them.  Cursing, the man shoves them, sending them cannoning towards O’Brien, but he steps aside, and Fraser catches the bar with his free hand to keep from falling to the floor.

 

The men are laughing, now, and Ray starts laughing too, as he backs up, dragging Fraser with him.  This time, the men let them stagger to the door, though O’Brien watches them, scowling, until Ray gets them turned around and Fraser can’t see what’s going on behind him any more.

 

The air outside is refreshingly cool and damp on Fraser’s face.  The streetlights all have halos, as well as a tendency to slide around the sky unless Fraser concentrates on making them stay put, which is really more effort than it’s worth.  The street rocks under his stumbling feet, but Ray is warm and solid beside him, supporting some of his weight and driving him more or less forward.

 

Until Ray halts, looks back over his shoulder, and straightens up, releasing Fraser so abruptly that Fraser nearly falls over.

 

“Okay, I think we can cut the comedy act now, no one’s tailing us, at least, not that I can tell.”  He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and starts walking, more briskly than before.

 

Fraser strides after him, but his feet keep sliding on the tilting pavement and he has to correct for a marked tendency to drift leftwards.

 

“Knock it off,” says Ray, grabbing Fraser’s elbow.  “We’re not trying win any Oscars, here, let’s just get home before trouble comes looking for us.”

 

“Right you are, Ray.”

 

Ray’s scowling face is suddenly nose-to-nose with Fraser’s, which makes Fraser’s eyes cross.

 

“Jesus, you’re not faking, are you?” says Ray incredulously.  Holding Fraser by both shoulders, he backs off just a little and peers intently into Fraser’s face from about a handsbreath away.  That pleases Fraser, because it’s much easier to keep Ray’s face in focus at this distance, and Ray’s expression is fascinating to contemplate. 

 

“You really are wasted,” Ray concludes.

 

“You’re drunk, too,” Fraser says.  “You said so.”

 

“That was acting, you dope.  Okay, I had two beers for appearances, maybe I’m a little buzzed.  You, on the other hand, are smashed.  Which is, like, one of the weirder things I’ve seen in a while.  What the hell happened to you?”

 

“I consumed a great deal of bourbon, which appears to have had the effect—“

 

“Yeah, the effect I can see, what I’m asking is why the hell were you drinking bourbon when we were on a case?  Or, you know, at all?”

 

“It seemed. . .”  Fraser tries to review the evening’s events, but the memories are slippery.  “I needed to. . .to divert the attention of those. . .O’Brian, yes, that’s important, isn’t it?”

 

“O’Brian, yeah, what, he looked like he was getting suspicious or something?”

 

“He—when you went into the pool room, he wanted to follow you, I’m not sure why, but he got angry with me when I tried to distract him from his errand, and I. . .I had to. . .I felt it was important to pin him down, so he couldn’t get his hands on you.”

 

“Good thinking, but what were you trying to do, drink him under the table?  Not your usual style.”

 

“True,” Fraser acknowledges.  “But the ritual sharing of alcoholic beverages—“

 

“Fraser, for—“

 

“—serves many purposes: hospitality, courtship ritual, male bonding, demonstration of one’s superior ability—“

 

“Okay, okay.  I think I get the picture.  Thanks for watching my back.  Listen, are you okay?” 

 

“I must confess that I seem to be operating at less than top-form,” admits Fraser.  “On the other hand, I’m finding the symptoms of alcohol poisoning not nearly so unpleasant as those of a concussion.  Probably related to the absence of a serious head injury, which is, of course, painful.  I’m also grateful that it doesn’t seem to have nearly as severe effect on either vision or limb function as the last concussion I suffered. . .or, no, that wasn’t, strictly speaking, the _last_ time, but—”

 

“Not relevant right now,” says Ray, giving Fraser’s shoulders a little shake. 

 

“Absolutely, I quite agree,” says Fraser, because there’s something much more important that he ought to be telling Ray right now, if only he could remember what it was. . .

 

“Okay,” says Ray, sounding dubious?—reluctant?—worried?  “You can still make complete sentences out of words I can’t even spell, you can’t be too messed up.  C’mon, I got you, let’s make tracks.”

 

“You’ve finally grasped it,” says Fraser, leaning on Ray again as they make their way down the street.  “Even in the city, everything leaves tracks.  Granted, they’re much more finicky to spot than in the wild. . .”

 

“God, you know, I don’t know what that says about you when your drunk talk doesn’t sound any crazier than your sober talk,” mutters Ray.

 

“A drunken man is ‘like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man,’” quotes Fraser.  “One draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.”

 

“Oh yeah?  Well, I don’t know how many you had, but you’re still walking, so I don’t think that counts as being drowned.  Good thing too, ‘cause I don’t think I could carry you too far.”

 

“’I am but mad north-northwest’. . .no, that’s Hamlet, sorry. . .’He is but mad yet, Madonna, and the fool shall look to the madman’. . .”

 

“Oh, so you’re crazy and I’m an idiot, great.  Well, that would explain why we work so well together.  C’mon, get in.” 

 

The inside of the cab is overheated, somnolent; the rhythm of the wheels on the road rocks Fraser to sleep, his head pillowed on Ray’s shoulder.  Now and then, he wakes to window-slices of moving city lights, or sentence fragments from Ray’s voice, soft in his ear.

_“. . .better than being shot, anyway. . .folded, spindled, mutilated. . .”_

_“. . .Jesus, I can’t take you back to the Consulate like this.  The Ice Queen would kill both of us, and you’d never forgive me. . .”_

_“. . .wouldn’t be the first time. . .never figured on doing it for_ you _, though. . .”_

_“. . .sleeping like a fucking angel, figures—Come on, Fraser, this is where we get out, rise and shine. . .”_

 

He’s vaguely aware of the stairs up to Ray’s apartment; the battered door that opens under the influence of Ray’s multiple keys.  Standing in Ray’s cluttered living room, he wonders where he should put his hat, until he realizes he’s not holding it and has no idea what’s happened to it.

 

“You left your hat back at the Consulate.  Plainclothes, remember?” says Ray, coming out of the kitchenette, and has Fraser been speaking aloud without realizing it, or has Ray developed telepathic abilities?

 

“While they would be a great benefit in your police work,” says Fraser, as Ray presses a glass of water into his hand and steers him into the bedroom, “I think you would find them a mixed blessing, particularly in the context of interpersonal relationships.  Not to mention the ethical issues involved.”

 

“Sure, sure, it’s complicated, I totally get that,” says Ray, putting a couple of pills carefully into Fraser’s other palm.  “Take these and make sure you drink the whole glass of water.  Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning.”

 

“Of course I trust you, Ray,” says Fraser.  “Haven’t I proven that by now?  Trust you with my life.”

 

“I know, buddy.”

 

He’s sitting on the bed, with Ray kneeling at his feet, struggling with Fraser’s bootlaces.  “Not enough.  I know that.  You want more.”

 

“Hey, no, it’s okay—“

 

“ _Deserve_ more.  Everything you give me, trust me with your secrets, trust me with your tears, with your. . .with your _dignity_ , with your _heart_ —“

 

“Whoa, yeah, okay, shut up, Fraser.”  Ray tugs off Fraser's other boot and heaves Fraser’s feet onto the bed.  His face is flushed.  Fraser grabs for his arm before he can move out of reach; it’s not where it ought to be, but Fraser manages to get hold of it. 

 

“I see, I know—but the thing is, the thing is, Ray. . .”  The words are tumbling around like clothes in a washing machine; they fall out of his mouth, disordered, tangled, unstoppable.  “How can I trust you with my heart when you’re not real?  It’s not your fault, not your fault Ray left and you’re going to leave too, you’ve got your orders and your life and it doesn’t matter whether you want to stay or not, it’s not allowed, I understand that, I do—”

 

Ray’s pushing at Fraser’s hands, now, trying to free himself.  “Shh, shh, I know, it’s okay, look, why don’t you get some sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning, honest, Fraser—“

 

He’s dimly aware that he’ll feel miserable and mortified in the morning, but the part of him that knows that has no control over his hands, which clutch Ray’s wrist tight and make a fist in the cloth of his t-shirt.  No control over his mouth, which keeps right on babbling.

 

“—But you have to see, I can’t, everyone leaves, and I can’t give it to you to take with you, I need it to keep my blood circulating, and I know you don’t believe I have one, but I do, Ray, only sometimes it just gets so cold inside. . .”

 

His face is wet; Ray’s fingers are warm and gentle as they brush the moisture away.

 

“Jesus,” Ray whispers.  “Jesus, Fraser.”

 

His fingers come to rest, so lightly, on Fraser’s lips, and still the flow of words at last.  His touch is warm, his wrist is warm in Fraser’s grasp, and though his deep-set eyes are lost in shadow, Fraser feels their warmth on him as well.  Ray’s warmth pervades Fraser, melting him into a broad smile and a puddle of loose limbs splashed on the soft mattress.

 

Ray gently uncurls Fraser’s fingers and arranges his hands at his sides, then pulls a blanket over him.

 

“Go to sleep, now,” he whispers.  “Don’t worry, I ain’t going anywhere.  Just go to sleep.”

 

His hand brushes over Fraser’s hair, and Fraser’s eyes slide shut.  As he melts away into the warm, comforting darkness, Fraser feels a soft kiss on his vanishing forehead.

 

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

Fraser wakes with a pounding headache, in an unfamiliar bed—not completely unfamiliar, though, because even though his nose is somewhat stuffed, the scent of the sheets is known, comforting.  Ray’s scent.  Ray’s bed, Fraser remembers. 

 

Fraser himself smells nauseatingly of sweat and alcohol and stale cigarette smoke.  He is fully dressed, apart from his bare feet.  He remembers Ray prying off his boots, and with that memory comes a host of others that make him flush with humiliation—expected, unpleasant, but deserved.

 

He levers himself gingerly upright.  A few breaths, and he is confident that he is not in danger of vomiting; his head hurts, but he’s endured worse, regularly.  He is alone, and for a moment, something like grief overwhelms him, but he shakes his head and admonishes himself not to be silly, and the feeling passes.

 

On the bedside table to his right are a glass of water, a bottle of ibuprofin, and a large, empty bowl.  Smiling at Ray’s thoughtfulness, Fraser takes a pill and drains the glass, then gets out of bed and ventures quietly out into the apartment in search of more water.

 

The main room is dimly illuminated by daylight filtering around the edges of the window blinds.  Ray is sprawled over the sofa, legs on the floor, head on the cushions, a pillow clutched in his arms.  Fraser considers trying to shift him to a more comfortable position, but is not confident of being able to do so without waking him, so he leaves Ray as he is. 

 

He wonders whether it might not be best to simply retrieve his boots from the bedroom and leave before Ray wakes up.  It’s tempting, but it would be an act of cowardice, and it wouldn’t make matters easier in the long run.  He will have to face Ray sooner or later.  Besides, Ray is his host—never mind the circumstances—and it would be rude to depart without taking his leave.

 

So Fraser continues into the kitchenette and starts a pot of coffee.  He drinks several glasses of water as he hunts around for the wherewithal to assemble some sort of breakfast.  Ray doesn’t keep much food in the house, and some of what he does have doesn’t really count, but there’s a loaf of bread in the refrigerator, so Fraser makes toast, setting out butter, jam, and peanut butter.

 

Coffee made, he pours two mugs and takes one out to Ray.  His partner is still asleep, but when Fraser says his name, Ray thrashes awake, tumbling the rest of the way onto the floor.  He blinks blearily up at Fraser, disoriented by his unaccustomed sleeping arrangements and Fraser’s presence, or perhaps just fighting his way into full consciousness.  Fraser presses the mug of coffee into Ray’s hand and is rewarded with a grateful groan.

 

“Coffee, God, I love you, Fraser.”

 

Fraser heads back into the kitchenette for his own mug, unable to bring himself to give a glib rejoinder to Ray’s casual words.  He doesn’t delude himself with the hope that Ray won’t remember the events of last night; he remembers them well enough, himself, and Ray was far less. . .impaired than Fraser was.  There’s no sense in crying over spilt milk, however.  All that is left to do is face the consequences with as much grace as possible.

 

But Ray is rattling on in his customary manner.  “Jeez, Fraser, you are like, the most psychotic morning person on the face of the planet.  If I’d been as hammered as you were last night, you couldn’t pry me out of bed with a crowbar, but you’re up with the sun and fucking making coffee.”

 

“Hardly up with the sun, Ray,” Fraser points out, spreading peanut butter on a piece of toast.  The notion of food is not particularly appealing, but he knows that eating something will make him feel better.

 

“Next best thing.”  Ray waves his free hand dismissively while slurping coffee.  “Hey, you feeling okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” says Fraser.

 

Ray shakes his head with an incredulous smile.  “The wonders of being raised on lichen.  Canadian vitamins or something.  Listen, we’re gonna have to go in to the station and debrief in a couple hours, that okay by you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Good, great.  We got time for a shower and stuff first, though, help yourself.  I put an extra towel in there for you.”  Ray buries his nose in his mug.

 

“Thank you,” Fraser responds automatically.  He takes a breath.  “Ray?”

 

“Yeah?”  Ray, apparently absorbed in his coffee, doesn’t look up.

 

“Thank you for—for your hospitality.  And for taking care of me, last night.”

 

“Hey, no problem, that’s what friends do.  ’Sides, you’re like the world’s politest drunk.  No trouble at all.”  Ray shoots him a quick glance.  “Quiet, too.”

 

There’s little Fraser can say to that.  Ray’s kindness shouldn’t surprise him, but it moves him nearly to tears, and his gratitude is mingled with a more complex emotion that feels strangely like loss.  He mumbles something about showering and retires to the bathroom before he can betray himself further.

 

He washes briskly but thoroughly, glad to be rid of the odors of last night.  He wishes he could wash the stink from his clothing as well, but there’s no help for it.  He’ll be back at the Consulate and able to change into a fresh uniform soon enough.  In the meantime, he makes himself as presentable as possible, carefully slicking down his hair (no use in trying to shave with Ray’s safety razor, even if it were not an unthinkable liberty to borrow it univited).  He hangs his borrowed towel carefully next to Ray’s dry one, tweaking the edges of both so that they hang symmetrically.

 

Emerging from the bathroom, he nearly bumps into Ray, who brushes past him with a smile and a swat on the shoulder, saying something about hot water.  The bathroom door shuts behind him before Fraser can respond.

 

Having put on his boots, made Ray’s bed, cleaned up the breakfast things, and folded the blankets left on the couch, Fraser plants himself in one of Ray’s armchairs.  To discipline his thoughts, he methodically catalogues all of the objects he can see, in as precise detail as possible.  Due to the astonishing number and variety of Ray’s possessions, Fraser’s mental exercise is still in progress when Ray returns, damp and dressed, shrugging his holster on over his T-shirt.

 

There are any number of things that Fraser could or should say at this moment.  There are questions he might ask, and Ray would almost certainly answer, because that’s what Ray does.  But it’s not what Fraser does, when he’s in possession of his senses.  And Ray has offered him the gift of silence, which Fraser is not strong enough to refuse. 

 

“All set?” asks Ray.

 

“Ready when you are,” Fraser replies, standing.

 

“Cool.”  Ray picks up his jacket, pats his pockets for keys, and then stops and looks at Fraser across a few feet of worn carpet.

 

“Hey, Fraser?”

 

“Yes, Ray?”

 

“Thanks for, you know, taking one for the team.  I just wish I’d been watching your back better, so you wouldn’t have had to.”

 

“Did you get the information you needed?” asks Fraser.

 

“Yeah.  Yeah, we’re gonna be able to nail ‘em.”

 

“Good, then.  All’s well that ends well.”

 

“Yeah.  Well, let’s motor.  We’ve got some bad guys to bust.”

 

Ray lets Fraser precede him out of the apartment so he can lock the door.  As Fraser starts down the stairs, Ray catches up behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder.  Fraser can’t feel the heat through his leather jacket, but the pressure is comforting, and when he looks over his shoulder, Ray’s smile warms Fraser all the way down to the pit of his stomach.


End file.
